


Capitalia

by trashonly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bisexual Character, F/F, F/M, Gay Character, Historical, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Multiple Relationships, One Shot Collection, Pansexual Character, Personified Capitals, Personified Cities
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23488849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashonly/pseuds/trashonly
Summary: Hetalia AU in which the capitals are also personifiedA collection of one-shots about the World Capitals***Rewritten from ff.net
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), Canada/Prussia (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia), Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character, South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Kudos: 20





	1. Capital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Cartwright was just your average janitor. Today, he's been assigned to room 202 to pick up after a bunch of UN representatives.  
> Now if only he could figure out why the room was full of kids and teenagers.

George Cartwright had been rather down on his luck, recently. What with his oldest starting at college, his wife moving back in with her sister and taking their son with her, and his pops in the hospital for the second time this year, his bank account had taken a significant hit.

So, he took a second job at the Washington D.C. Meeting Hall.

As a janitor.

Okay, so it wasn’t the most fun job, to say the least, but it offered reasonable hours and surprisingly good benefits, so who was he to complain? He just had to pick up after a few rich fuddy-duddies, then he got to clock out and visit his pops at the hospital or his dad at his childhood home. Besides, it wasn't permanent. He just needed to pay off some bills; this was just a temporary gig.

“You’ll be assigned to room 202 today,” his boss, Maria, told him. The others turned to look at him with strange expressions- they all kind of looked like they were already figuring out what flowers to lay on his coffin.

Jackson, a much older man who had worked here for probably two decades now, snorted. “Good luck,” he said, patting him on the back sympathetically. “Those kids can get rowdy.”

“Kids?” George echoed, but Jackson had already turned and had begun pushing a garbage can down the hall, whistling merrily. Then, he shrugged; Jackson was old, everyone probably looked like “kids” to him.

Maria sighed. “You’ll be fine, George. Just don’t get in the middle of their fights, clean up after them, and try not to think too hard about them,” she advised.

George blinked. “Whatever you say boss,” he said, eventually, not really understanding what she meant.

That quickly changed an hour later.

* * *

Kids.

Literal children. Were in this meeting room.

George had to peek back outside at the number on the door, to ensure that it was the right room.

Most of the kids in the room were about high school to college aged, but he could have sworn he saw a few kids under the age of 16 running around. That was another thing; the sheer number of them. The room had a max capacity of two hundred people, sure, but he hadn't realized that it was going to fill. But almost all the seats were filled, each row more elevated than the one in front of it. The desks lined each row like a semi circle so they faced the front podium, which was outfitted with a microphone and stood to the side of a large, white screen.

_What is going on here_ , he wondered, baffled.

This was a professional building for government officials, it couldn’t just be rented out to random people. Maybe it was an unofficial daycare center for the officials working elsewhere in the building? Though, if that were the case, why were they all dressed in business formal attire?

_Maybe it's some kind of Model U.N. thing_ , he thought. Though, there was a feeling in his stomach that told him he was wrong. While most of the teens in the room were dressed in button ups, ties, and pencil skirts or slacks, there were some of them dressed in military uniforms. It was especially strange the younger they looked; it looked like the were playing dress up with their parents' clothes.

“Attention everyone!” A teen at the very front of the room stood, beaming at them. She was short, maybe around 5’4, but her face more mature than her height implied. She was no older than eighteen, with broad shoulders and a round, full face. She had long, light blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She was also one of the few teens who didn’t wear business formal, but instead, an open military jacket over a white button up and black slacks. He couldn’t quite make out the details on her jacket, though. She also wore an old aviator hat with a pair of googles pushed up out of her face. "Welcome everyone to our yearly summit!"

The white screen behind her flickered to life, revealing a PowerPoint presentation.

_World Capitals Summit 2020_ , he read to himself, bewildered.

“Not this again,” groaned another girl, from her seat. “Amelia, your PowerPoint presentations really need to stop.”

This girl was about the same age, though did not have the same sunny disposition as the girl standing at the front, presumably “Amelia.” She had a lean figure and chestnut brown hair, which was pulled into a ponytail. Her face was thin, with high cheekbones and hazel eyes that were narrowed in annoyance. She crossed her arms over her dark green jacket. George got the sense, just looking at her, that she considered herself an older sibling, or a mentor, of sorts.

The most striking thing that George first noticed was the clear, British accent. _Maybe the daughter of a diplomat _, he thought.__

“Hush, Kathy,” Amelia said, playfully. “I’ve shortened it this year! Only an hour this time!”

Groans were heard throughout the room.

“How many times have I told you,” the brunette grumbled, picking up a porcelain tea cup from its saucer delicately. “It’s Katherine. And that is much too long; what could you even prattle on about for an hour?”

“ _Amélie [1],”_ the curly haired blonde boy sitting next to Katherine cut in. He, too, appeared to be the same age as the first two. He seemed annoyed, but was patiently choosing his words. “I thought you were going to limit yourself this year to fifteen minutes, _non_?” He spoke with a thick French accent, but his English was flawless.

Amelia sighed dramatically. “I was,” she agreed. “But then I kept getting so many ideas-“ Here, she pressed down on the clicker, and the slideshow skipped to the next slide.

The top of the slide read “AGENDA” and underneath was a long list of several items. George squinted a bit; the font was so small, he could barely see what was written. He could make out words such as “robots,” “heroes,” and “economy.”

“Oh no,” the Asian boy sitting at one end of the front row snapped to attention. “You are not trying to pay me and _bàba_ [2] back in seashells, are you?” He seemed like one of the oldest ones in the room, but was still no older than twenty-one. The way he carried himself, however, was like that of an old man.

Amelia laughed nervously, quickly clicking the clicker to move onto the next slide. “Of course not!”

“Ve, I say we take our lunch break!” a brunette cried out. She had an Italian accent, which George was not too surprised about given everyone else in the room. She had a tanned, olive complexion, wavy brown hair that reached her waist, and wide, innocent amber colored eyes.

“Isabella-chan,” an Asian girl next to her said with a patient sigh. “We just got here.” She had dark eyes and short black hair with neatly trimmed bangs that framed her face. She was thin, with pale skin and a petite figure.

“Ve, but I’m hungry, Harumi!” Isabella pouted.

“Amelia,” a tall, broad shouldered boy began. “did you have a bullet point for the Mars Rover?” He spoke with a thick Russian accent, reminiscent of George’s grandfather. The teen looked like a college student had been forced to attend a Model U.N. meeting, but was unhappy about it, with his half done up tie and long jacket that covered most of his outfit. He had light brown hair and dark gray eyes, which were watching the girl in the front warily.

“Yes, I did!” Amelia declared, clearly pleased. I’m glad you noticed, Dmitri!”

Meanwhile, the boy next to Isabella was scowling. “For once, I agree with my _sorella_ [3],” he grumped. “I want some damn food.”

The two were clearly related, with their matching eyes, though the boy had a tanner complexion and darker brown hair. He was fiddling with his tie uncomfortably, clearly not feeling comfortable with his attire.

Perhaps even twins, George thought, given their closeness in age, which appeared to be about nineteen or twenty years old.

“See?” Isabella exclaimed, triumphant. “Lorenzo agrees with me!”

“Can’t we get through one meeting without us breaking into arguments?” mumbled a boy near the back. No one seemed to hear him, however, and bickering became worse.

George looked around him, completely bewildered by the arguments taking place.

“Quit it, Braginsky! I see you glaring at Ania!”

“Me? I did no such thing, I do not know what you are talking about, Vil,”

“Why you little…”

“Would you guys quit shouting, Carmen looks on the verge of tears.”

“I’m- I’m not!”

“Yeah, guys, totally not awesome!”

“Klaus what are you even doing here?”

“What, I can’t stop by to say hi?”

“No!”

Eventually, one boy clearly had enough. He shot up from his seat, slamming his hands on the desk. His blonde hair was neatly slick back, not a hair out of place, and his blue eyes were blazing with anger.

“ _Schweigen!_ [4]" he barked.

The German command cut through the bickering teens, grabbing all of their attentions.

“Er, Alois, you have something to say?” Amelia asked, sheepishly.

“ _Ja_ ,” he snapped. “This is getting ridiculous! We hardly get anything done at these meetings, even though our parents and siblings give us clear responsibilities and duties. So I demand that we start acting like grown-ups and if you don’t like it, you can leave!”

Everyone looked away awkwardly, looking properly chastised.

“ _Gut_ [5],” Alois nodded firmly, still scowling. “Now, we will let Amelia speak for fifteen minutes, then we will move on! Understood?”

Silence.

“I said,” Alois leveled all of them a glare. “Understood?”

There were mumbled “yes sir”’s in various languages.

“Amelia, you may begin.” Alois sat back down, adjusting his tie and running a hand through his hair to slick back any hairs that might have fallen in place.

Amelia’s eyes lit up. “Okay, so here’s my proposal for global warming!”

Everyone groaned.

* * *

The meeting carried on with few interruptions from that. George was genuinely surprised by the productivity, given how the meeting had started. Finally, the teens broke for lunch.

“Be back by 3 pm!” Amelia chirped. "We'll start with William from there!"

George sighed and began cleaning up the bits of trash left behind, as the teens trickled out of the room.

“Are you coming, ‘Meels?” a soft voice asked. The quiet boy from the back was standing in the doorway, along with the Brit, Katherine, and the boy with the French accent, William.

“You guys go on ahead of me,” Amelia said. “I’ll catch up in like, five minutes.”

The three shrugged and wandered off without her. The blonde then deposited herself right in front of George, smiling widely.

“You must be new,” she declared, sticking her hand out. “Amelia D. Jones, at your service!”

George took it, frowning in confusion. “George Cartwright. How’d you know?”

“Oh, I know everyone in the building,” she said, waving it aside casually.

Now that she was closer, George could make out the various decorations on her jacket. There was a collection of ribbons and decorations lining the left breast, including a silver badge of a diamond with wings. He could also see an emblem on the sleeve: a golden number eight with wings sprouting out of the bottom loop. Three stars sat proudly on her shoulders and the name tag on the left side of her jacket read simply read “Jones.”[6]

George knew a real uniform when he saw one. This girl was either wearing a parent’s uniform, which he found unlikely, or…

Amelia smiled, almost knowingly. “You from a military family?” she asked, kindly.

“My pops,” he said, swallowing. “Navy. My granddad was air force, though.”

The smile grew. “Me too.”

“You?” George was incredulous, but the longer he looked at the jacket, the more doubtful he became.

She laughed. “I’m older than I look,” she admitted. She said it like she knew something he didn’t.

George couldn’t help but laugh along with her; it was infectious.

“What’d you say your last name was?” Amelia asked, curiously, suddenly.

“Cartwright,” George answered.

That gave her some pause. “Your granddad wouldn’t happen to be Lieutenant General Albert Cartwright, would it?”

George’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “That’s exactly right. He retired years ago, though, back in the 50s. Got out of Vietnam. He got lucky, my dad used to say.”

“Yeah,” Amelia murmured to herself, thoughtfully. “Perfect timing.” Then, her pensive expression turned mischievous. “Old Al still kicking?”

George nodded. “Yes, lives with my dad and pops, actually.”

“And his Eliza?” she pressed.

He didn’t even ask how she knew. “Still teaching.”

Amelia’s smile grew wider. “Perfect. Could you do me a favor, George?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sure, kid, whatdya need?”

She reached across the front podium, pulling out a notepad and a pen. She began scribbling, leaving George to silently watch.

“This your only gig, George?” Amelia asked, absentmindedly.

“Nah,” George admitted. “Used to work at a law firm, just moved back to town, though, after some budget cuts. This is just temporary- I wanna sign up for the FBI academy, but I need to take care of my kid first.”

Amelia stopped writing a bit. “A kid?” she asked, sounding overjoyed.

“Yeah,” George sighed, fondly. “Jenny. She’s probably your age, actually. Just starting college, now. Her mom and I had her real young, so I’ve been workin’ non-stop since then. She’s a smart cookie, she got a partial scholarship. So, I figured, hey, this is an opportunity to change up my life, too. But, you know, until then, I still got bills to pay.”

“FBI academy,” Amelia mused to herself, before going back to scribbling in her notebook. Finally, she tore the page out, folded it up, and held it out to him. “If you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate you delivering this to your granddad.”

George took it. “Sure thing, kid,” he said, more questions wanting to burst from his mouth, but his dads taught him well, so he didn’t wanna pry. Besides, he could always ask his granddad.

“And you should fill out an application to the FBI,” Amelia added, with a wink. “Think you got a pretty good shot, George.”

“Aw, shucks, I doubt they’d take me,” George said, slipping the note into his pocket.

“Nah, they need good men like you,” Amelia insisted. “Virginian born and raised, right?” she guessed.

George laughed. “My accent give it away?”

“Yeah,” she laughed with him. “You know, lots of founding fathers were from Virginia. George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, James Monroe…” She trailed off.

“You a big history fan?” he asked.

Amelia rubbed the back of her neck. “You could say that," she said, a hint of irony entering her tone there, though George didn't catch why. Then, she checked her watch, and squeaked in surprise. “Oh, Katherine’s gonna kill me.”

“Late to lunch?” George asked.

“Yeah, shoot,” she groaned. “Will you be here after lunch?”

“Nah, my shift’s over in fifteen minutes. I think Jessie’s taking over,” George said.

“Ah, no problem. Nice guy, Jessie." Amelia smiled a little fondly. "I’ll be seeing you, George.” She stuck her hand out again, and George took it.

“You too, Amelia,” he agreed. Then, she disappeared from the room.

He stared at the door way for a long moment, then shook his head. Today had been a strange day.

George alternated every day, between visiting his pops in the hospital, and his dad at home in Virginia. Today happened to be a home day.

“Hey, dad,” George called out as he entered the house, letting the door close behind him.

“Not here yet,” his granddad said, wheeling out from the living room. “He’s out grocery shopping. Today was your first day, right, Georgie? How was it?”

He reached into his pocket. “Actually, granddad, it was pretty weird. Met this girl, like, eighteen years old, right? And she was wearing a uniform, just like yours, and these old aviator goggles and a hat.”

His granddad gave him a curious look. “Yeah?”

George nodded, and sat in the armchair across from him. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “Actually, I talked to her for a bit. Told her my name, that you were in the air force too.”

“Did you get her name?”

“Yeah.” George withdrew the note from his pocket, and held it out to him. He looked at him in confusion.

“What is this?” he asked, taking the note and carefully unfolding it.

“She said her name was Amelia D. Jones,” George said, carefully watching his grandfather for his expressions. “She asked me to give this to you.”

His eyes widened, and he quickly read the note. George had never seen his granddad cry, not even when his pops was admitted to the hospital for the first time. But, as he refolded the note, George could see tears welling up in the old man’s eyes.

“Did you know her?” George asked, dying of curiosity and trying desperately not to show it.

His granddad laughed. “Oh, did I.” He wheeled himself across the room toward the bookshelf, pulling out a large, red scrap book. George stood and leaned over his shoulder, curiously. The album was clearly old, photos taken as early as the 1930s.

“This here,” his granddad said, pointing at a photos of himself and a dark haired woman. “That’s your gran and I, at our prom.”

George couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculous clothes and outdated hairstyles. He could hardly recognize them. “No kidding!”

His grandfather chuckled along with him before he flipped a couple more pages. Various faded, black and white photos of his grandfather, of his father, and their family growing up, along with some photos of his granddad during his service. Finally, he stopped at a group photo. Its age was obvious, given the amount of fading in the photo, but George could still zero in on one face in particular.

“Wow,” George said, amazed. “Amelia’s grandmother must have had some strong genes. That looks just like her!”

His granddad chuckled. “Nah, son,” he said. “I think that that _was_ Amelia.”

“… you take your meds today?” George asked.

He huffed, pushing his grandson a bit. “Oh, hush, you. Amelia was always... well, different; she never took crap from anyone, always hung out with us boys. She’d talk your ear of if you let her, but she always seemed to be hiding something, like-“

“Like she knew something that you didn’t,” George finished, eyes wide.

His granddad smiled, knowingly. “Yeah, just like that. She’d disappear a lot, too. Drove me and the other guys nuts, we’d be afraid she got left behind in a battlefield. But she was always talking about how she’d get transferred somewhere important, because she had duties she needed to fulfill elsewhere, but she’d always come back. Always mentioned her brother, too, and how he was fighting in the Pacific.”

“What…” George swallowed. “What is she?”

He shrugged. “Lord knows,” he said. “But that girl you saw today, that was Amelia, no doubt about it.”

A week later, George found himself on the clock when he caught sight of a familiar flash of blonde.

“Amelia!” he cried out, surprising even himself. The girl turned, and immediately broke out into a smile. The man beside her, with strikingly similar features to the younger girl, turned as well, looking at George curiously.

“Go ahead, Alfred,” Amelia said. “We’ll meet up later.”

Alfred shrugged. “Okay, see you later, then. Make sure you’re there on time, otherwise-“

“Yeah, he’ll be on our case, I know.” She waved him aside, and turned her full attention on George.

“I take it your granddad got my note?” she asked, happily, as they continued down the hall.

“Yeah,” George said. “I also sent in my application to the FBI Academy, and heard back from them in an hour.”

“And?”

“I’ve got an interview with them next week.”

“That’s great, George!”

“Yeah…” George continued. “My granddad showed me this picture of his regiment, back in France in 1945.”

“Must’ve been real fascinating,” Amelia said, with a secretive smile.

“Yeah it was,” George agreed. “And I also did some research, into those fancy badges on your jacket."

Amelia’s eyes were shining. “Oh?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“And I found out, that badge you got there,” he pointed at the wings sprouting from the diamond. “It’s a WASP[7] badge, made specifically during the second world war. So I gotta ask. What… what exactly are you?”

Amelia laughed a little. She picked up the pace, stepping in front of him and turning on her heels to face him so that George had to stop walking. Before she could say anything, George stuck his hand out.

“I’m George, George Cartwright.”

Amelia looked pleasantly surprised. She took his hand, and shook it, for the third time. “Amelia D. Jones, at your service, George Cartwright. Otherwise known as the capital of the United States of America, Washington D.C.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1]French for "Amelia" 
> 
> [2]Mandarin pingyin for "Father" 
> 
> [3]Italian for "sister" 
> 
> [4]German for "Silence"
> 
> [5]German for "Good"
> 
> [6]Amelia's jacket from her time in the U.S. Army Air Force has a variety of decorations. The emblem with the number eight denotes the Eighth Air Force, an air force in Europe during WWII. The three stars in the U.S. Air Force is a Lieutenant General, though Amelia was only a two star general at the time, she had since been promoted around the 60s and simply refused to give up the old pink and green jacket for the new blue one. 
> 
> [7]Women Airforce Service Pilots Badge


	2. Chapter 2 - Washington D.C.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Philadelphia is renamed to DC, meets other capitals, and contemplates the world throughout history.  
> Otherwise titled: the writer took APUSH in high school and has no other use for the information and is therefore info-dumping on all of you poor unfortunate souls.  
> Otherwise titled: DC's pansexual crises throughout American History.

**Philadelphia, Pennsylvania - June 1760**

The earliest memory she had was a pair of bright blue eyes, ones much like her own.

“Hello,” the young man said, gently smiling. “Who are you?”

She was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t know,” she said, honestly. “But I think… I think I’m meant to be someone.”

“I’m America,” the man said. “You can call me Alfred, if you’d like. Do you have a name yet?”

She shook her head.

“That’s okay too,” he said.

“Alfred?” she asked.

“Yeah, kid?”

“Are you my dad?”

America, who really looked no older than perhaps seventeen years old, let out a squawk. “Oh my god, no, no- absolutely not- I…“ He sputtered for a several moments, as she blinked up at him owlishly.

He quickly composed himself. “Uh, no, sorry kid.” Then, his eyes lit up. “But, I can be your big brother!”

She immediately brightened, and took his hand. “Okay!” she agreed, readily.

America’s smile was soft. “I was going to go visit Mr. Franklin in his print shop. He’s been teaching me to read and write. Would you like to come?”

She didn’t know what a print shop was, nor did she know who this Mr. Franklin was. But there was something deep in her chest, something that told her she it was _important_ , somehow. If not now, but soon. So, she nodded.

“Sure,” she agreed, and followed him, hand in hand.

They walked down the cobblestone street. Her eyes took in the bustling crowd of people, walking in and out of stores, riding along the horse drawn carriages, kids chasing each other playfully through the street.

“Where are we?” she asked, curiously.

“You don’t know where we are?” He seemed puzzled. “We’re in Philadelphia.”

She straightened, suddenly, and stopped walking. He paused, as well.

“That’s me,” she said, simply. She was sure of it.

America blinked in surprise, before a slow smile grew on his face. “Well, then,” he said, beaming now. “Welcome, Philadelphia.”

* * *

**New York City, New York - October 1776**

“I need you to do me a favor,” America said, abruptly.

Philadelphia looked at her brother. “Anything,” she said, and she meant it.

“I want you to accompany Mr. Franklin to France,” America explained. “And help convince the French to help us.”

Philadelphia frowned. “You don’t want me here with you,” she said.

America’s shoulders dropped. His musket was draped around his torso, and he fidgeted it uncomfortably before he finally said, “Not because I don’t want you with _me_. It’s because I don’t want you here, on the battlefront.”

“Is it because we’re losing?” she asked, softly.

She could see America’s fists tightened. “Not if I can help it,” he said, darkly.

Philadelphia clenched her jaw. “I can help too,” she insisted.

“I know.” America sighed “But… I’m your big brother, and I know you can help without being in the line of fire. Plus, you’re a people person. You can help so much in France, too. Look around- we need their help.”

Philadelphia looked around at the surrounding soldiers, in various states of disarray, injury, and despair. She looked back at America’s pleading eyes.

She was pretty sure he just didn’t want England finding out about her. For all that she had heard her brother complaining about his former guardian, she had never met the nation. Not for lack of trying, of course.[1] America was scared, though, and could she really blame him? She relented.

“Okay,” she said, exhaling. “I’ll go.”

America smiled brilliantly. “You’re gonna be great,” he promised.

“I know that,” she grumbled. “You better not die while I’m gone, though.”

America laughed. “I won’t.”

With that, Philadelphia set off to meet with Mr. Franklin.

* * *

**Paris, France - December 1776**

Barely an hour in in Paris, and Philadelphia had already gotten herself stuffed into a corset and fancy dress before getting shoved into a party at the palace. She was already sick of the stuffy attire and showboating of it all.

“I hate this,” she said, miserably.

“Ah, I did not expect this to be your scene,” Franklin admitted, with a small, benign smile. “Nevertheless, this is an important part of diplomacy.”

Philadelphia squinted at him a bit, and scowled. “You like this!” she accused.

Franklin could help but chuckle. “I’ll admit, I appreciate the French culture more than the average person would.”

She grumbled to herself, shifting her weight between her feet, which were currently aching. She opened her mouth to respond when they were approached by two men.

The taller one couldn’t be much older than mid-20s, and the younger one looked as if he hadn’t even hit his second decade yet. Something about them… felt off. Philadelphia felt a prickling at the back of her neck.

“ _Bonjour!_ ” The taller man exclaimed, smiling brightly.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” Franklin returned, smiling at the two young men. “I am-“

“Ah, Benjamin Franklin, _non_?” the taller man said, beaming. He had long blonde hair, tied back with a blue ribbon. He reached for Franklin’s hand eagerly, shaking it excitedly. “I am Francis Bonnefoy, this is my brother, William.”

The boy, William, had several similar characteristics to his brother. Their eyes were the same shade of blue, and they wore the same expression on already structurally similar faces. Though, his hair was lighter and curler than that of his brother’s. He took Philadelphia’s hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles gently.

“ _Enchante [2]_,” he murmured, looking up through his eyelashes.

“ _Vous aussi [3]_,” Philadelphia returned, offering a small smile.

“Your French is not bad,” he said. He straightened, but did not let go of her hand quite yet. “Monsieur Franklin taught you, I presume?”

“That is correct,” she answered, cautiously. There was something… off. “Though, I could use more tutoring. I’m afraid French doesn’t come quite so naturally, for me.”

He smiled, looking almost amused. “That can be arranged; I am, in fact, an excellent teacher in the language.” He said this with no small amount of irony, and it made Philadelphia wonder if she was missing the joke. “You are staying for a while, I presume?”

“Yes, though... I've been a little homesick,” she admitted.

The four walked through the crowd of people, all dressed to the nines and each wearing more wealth than Philadelphia had ever seen. The two fell a step behind Franklin and Francis, who had begun conversing in French more quickly than Philadelphia could keep up with.

“Ah yes, I understand,” William murmured. “I can never be apart from Paris for very long. It feels as though a part of me is missing, almost, when I am away from home.”

Yes, that was it.

That was… _exactly_ it.

Philadelphia felt her stomach flip as the realization dawned on her.

“Oh, _ma faute [4]_,” William said, suddenly. “I never asked for your name.”

“Do you have to?” Philadelphia looked at him now, her eyes flickering with amusement. “I know who you are, after all,” she paused, and leaned in a little so only he could hear her. “ _la capitale Paris [5]_.”

William’s eyes widened, and he stopped dead in his tracks. Philadelphia also stopped, if only to watch him with an innocent expression. His mouth was agape.

The world moved on with them looking at each other. People passed by, the music kept playing, and even Francis- _France_ \- and Mr. Franklin continued to walk on without them.

“Well,” Paris said, quickly reigning in his shock. His face smoothed out to that of a pleasant expression. “This is quite a surprise.”

“I hope,” she said, carefully, “that this serves as proof that America will succeed as its own sovereign country. If it wasn’t… then what purpose would I serve here?”

Paris smiled, but this time more genuinely. It put Philadelphia’s nerves at ease a bit- at least for the time being.

“Care to dance?” he asked, holding a hand out.

“I don’t know how to.” Philadelphia felt her cheeks burn a bit at the admission.

“It’s easy,” he promised. “Just follow my lead.”  
Reluctantly, Philadelphia took his hand. She did her best to stay in time with him, moving and swaying with the music as he led her across the ballroom floor.

“This is too much, _non_?” Paris asked, gesturing a bit to the whole room.

“It’s more than I’m used to,” she admitted.

“Would you like to take a walk?” he suggested. “Versailles is lovely at night.”

Philadelphia nodded. “That would be nice.”

He led her out of the crowded ballroom and down a series of halls and stairs until they reached a balcony, overlooking the city of Paris. The day had melted into night long ago, leaving only the moon and the stars twinkling in the darkened sky. She could make out the sheet of white snow that had recently fallen upon their arrival. It made the whole city glow under the moonlight.

Philadelphia’s eyes widened. “It’s beautiful,” she gasped, losing her composure for a moment as she leaned against the railing. Then, she gave a little shiver; the December air was chilly, even without the snow falling.

“It is,” Paris agreed, with no small amount of pride. He shrugged off his long jacket, and draped it over her shoulders wordlessly. She clutched it, looking up at him in surprise. He offered her a sweet smile.

“Tell me about your city," he requested.

Her eyes lit up, and she launched into a long explanation of Philadelphia, her pride and joy. Full of hustle and bustle, children playing in the streets, the first library open to the public, the busy waterfront. The more she spoke, though, the more homesick she became.

“You miss it,” Paris said, softly, taking a hand into his. She nodded, not pulling away.

“I do,” she admitted. “Not just my city- everything, and everyone. I miss Alfred, I miss traveling with the Continental Army, even with all the fighting.”

“The battlefield is no place for a lady like you,” Paris said, smoothly, brushing a strand of hair that had fallen into her face.

She looked up at him with wide eyes at the action, then laughed a bit.

“No,” she disagreed. “The battlefield couldn’t _handle_ me.”

Paris’s smile grew, and she was suddenly struck by the sudden genuineness of it. Not that his previous smiles had been fake- only not as full.

“I believe you,” he said, his voice now reaching a whisper. Philadelphia shivered, but felt her cheeks grow warm. She purposely leaned in a little, and Paris seemed to understand her invitation.

Philadelphia’s eyes slid shut as his lips met hers, and she melted into his embrace. Paris cradled her head gently, as if she were made of glass, before finally breaking apart. He was smiling gently. Philadelphia felt her face warm, and averted eye contact.

“That was… nice,” she said, a little sheepishly.

“Your first kiss?” Paris asked, curiously.

Philadelphia nodded. He blinked.

“How long have you been a capital?” Paris asked, suddenly.

“I’m not technically a capital yet,” Philadelphia reminded him. “But Alfred- that is, America- found me sixteen years ago.”

His eyes grew wide. “Sixteen years?” he breathed. “You are so young…”

Philadelphia frowned at this. “I’m not young,” she said, suppressing a scowl.

Paris held his arms up in defense. “I did not mean any offense, _pardon_ _moi_ ,” he said, “just in comparison to myself.”  
Philadelphia looked at him curiously. “And how old are you?” she asked.

Paris gave her a teasing smile. “Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a lady her age?”

She made a face at him.

“Well,” Paris said, sighing dramatically. “If you must know, I believe Francis found me first just before the turn of the 5th century.”

Philadelphia’s eyes widened. That was… an _unfathomable_ amount of time.

“Yes, I am old,” Paris chuckled. “I have seen countries and capitals rise and fall. Few, however, had the conviction, the spark that you do, _mon petit lapin [6]_.”

Philadelphia made a face at the nickname, but it didn’t cover her red cheeks at the compliment. “ _Merci, Paris_. Does this mean…”  
Paris put a hand on her shoulder. “I am behind you, Philadelphia, and _Amerique._ It is my brother and our king that you will have to convince.”

Well, it was a start. A better start than she would have anticipated, as well.

“ _Merci,_ William,” she whispered.

 _Just wait ‘till Franklin hears about this,_ she thought, hardly able to contain her excitement. _Hmph, and all that talk about diplomacy._

William smiled sweetly, then gave her another chaste kiss on the cheek before offering his arm out for her to take, and the two left the moonlight to return to the ballroom without another word.

* * *

**Valley Forge, Pennsylvania – February 1778**

“I came back,” Philadelphia said, teeth chattering, “because I missed home. I didn’t come back to freeze to death.”

“Hear hear,” muttered a passing soldier.

“You didn’t have to come,” America said, exasperated.

“Yes, I did,” Philadelphia huffed. “I wanted to meet that Prussia guy you wrote me about. Is he really as bad as you say he is?”

America suddenly made a face of despair at her, and she realized her mistake.

“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” she asked, miserably. America gave her a sympathetic nod.

She sighed. “Right, well.” She turned, coming face to face with a tall, lean albino man.

“Keep going,” he said, grinning. “I’d love to hear what Alfred’s been saying about me.”

She heard her brother smack himself in the face.

“Not all bad,” Philadelphia snorted. “Just said that you were crazy, and enjoyed beating his ass every day. But also, that he’s been learning a lot.”

“Hm,” Prussia seemed contemplative. “Acceptable. You must be Philadelphia.”

Suddenly remembering her manners, Philadelphia straightened and stuck her hand out. “Yes, nice to meet you, Mr. Prussia.”

“Just Gilbert, if you don’t mind,” he said. “You should also meet Kon- where is he- oh! Klaus!” Prussia waved at someone in the background.

A young man jogged over. He looked awfully similar to Prussia, with white hair, red eyes, and a similar build. He was about an inch shorter, though, and his hair was a bit longer and wilder.

“This is _mein kleiner bruder [7],_” he said, smiling proudly. “Konigsberg, this is Philadelphia.”

He offered a polite smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Klaus.”

Philadelphia smiled back. “If Gilbert’s training Alfred, does that mean you’ll be training me?” she asked.

Konigsberg snorted a bit. “Please,” he said, dismissively. “I’m not gonna waste my time training a kid.”

Philadelphia bristled. She saw America out of the corner of her eye frantically shake his head and move his arms, trying to warn the unfortunate capital, to no avail.

“I’m not a kid,” she snapped.

Konigsberg gave her an unimpressed look, but his eyes narrowed, like he was sizing her up.

“Oh no,” Prussia sighed, like he recognized that expression.

“You have been a capital for what, less than two decades,” Konigsberg scoffed. “You’re basically a _baby_! You have absolutely no discipline, and no training.”

“ _Oh no_ ,” America muttered, already knowing where this was going.

Philadelphia grit her teeth, hands clenching into fists.

“Well,” she said, icily, “let’s see if I need your damn _training_ or _discipline_ to kick your ass.”

Konigsberg grinned viciously.

It occurred to her, much later, that this was not the typical way one asked to be trained. Though, it was probably a well-deserved lesson, she grudgingly accepted, several hours later, when she was washing the mud out of her clothes and tending to the bruises.

He’d probably gone easy on her, too, she thought, frustrated.

“Tomorrow at dawn, sharp!” Konigsberg had ordered, jauntily marching away from where she was lying on the ground in the muddy, wet snow, wincing in pain.

 _Well_ , she thought, glumly. At least he’d agreed to train her.

* * *

**Paris, France – September 1783**

America was practically bounding all the way there.

“You’re in an awfully good mood, Alfred,” Philadelphia teased, bumping shoulders with her brother.

“How can I not be?” He laughed. “This is it!”

Philadelphia smiled, hastening her pace to keep up with America’s speed walk.

The signing of the damn treaty itself was a long, arduous process. She didn’t actually pay all that much attention to the talks, instead choosing to peer around the room at its various occupants.

England had been easy to identify, what with his very unhappy expression along with America’s detailed descriptions of him, with sandy blonde hair, emerald green eyes, and thick eyebrows. Beside her sat a young woman with long, brown hair pulled up into a neat up-do. She wore an elegant cream colored dress and simple make up. When she crossed her legs, Philadelphia could catch a glimpse of her ankles.

Philadelphia looked away quickly, cheeks reddening. 

“Hey,” Philadelphia whispered to America, while John Jay was addressing the room. “Who’s that? The girl next to England?”

“Oh,” America whispered back. “That’s London. I haven’t actually seen her in a while… I’m surprised she’s here.”

Philadelphia was too, to be honest. While England had arrived in America with his troops to try to quell the rebellion, London had stayed home, managing the country in his stead from the home front. It was clear that England had assumed that the rebellion would be crushed in a year, at most, but what he had gotten instead had been a long, drawn out conflict that lasted until the costs of war outweighed the benefits of keeping a bunch of colonies under his thumb. Eventually, even England had to realize that it was impossible to justify continuing the war, both in terms of money as well as in terms of human lives.

It was after all the stuffy speeches and actual signing that Philadelphia quite literally ran into the British capital.

“Oof- oh, sorry, love,” London said, distractedly, hardly looking in her direction. Her accent was sharp and curt, but her voice was soft and polite.

“It’s fine,” she said, but as soon as the words left her mouth, London had frozen. She looked back at Philadelphia, eyes wide.

“You’re London, right?” Philadelphia felt obliged to ask, even though she knew the answer. “I’m Philadelphia. Nice to meet you.”

London looked very much out of her element. Finally, she said, “… it’s nice to meet you too.” Before turning on her heels and rushing after her brother and the other British officials.

Philadelphia shrugged, and turned back to America, who was conversing with John Adams quietly in the corner of the room still.

Strange girl, but she could hardly blame her for wanting to get out of there.

* * *

**Washington D.C. - July 1790**

“Are you okay with it?” America asked her curiously.

She nodded; she was bigger now, so she couldn’t let how upset she was really show. This was for the good of the country, after all. Philadelphia would always have a special place in her heart, but it was time to move on.

“I’m fine,” the newly named District of Columbia said. “Let’s go, Alfred.”

America gave her a soft smile. "Happy birthday, kiddo."

* * *

**Washington D.C. - July 1814**

It hurt. The pain was unimaginable- until she didn’t have to imagine it. She lay on the ground and stared up at the sky. The stars and the moon were gone, and the air was filled with choking black smoke. She lay there, waiting for the ground to swallow her up, or for her vision to fade.

“I’m sorry, Alfred,” she murmured.

“DC!” A pair of arms scooped her up. “We need to-“

There was shouting in the background. DC managed to open her eyes wide enough to spot something in the distance. Amongst the flickering flames, dancing in the moonlight, she could make out the darkening of clouds.

“What the…” she muttered. Then, the wind started whipping around them. DC looked up at America, who looked just as baffled as she did.

“I didn’t know there was supposed to be a storm today,” he said, as he mounted his horse. DC clutched onto him for dear life, looking over his shoulder grimly.

“There wasn’t,” she said. “This isn’t a storm.”

America tensed, and they rode furiously through the burning streets of the city. Just as they reached the end, rain started to fall. She stared back as the rain doused the flames the British had set, and the winds began to pick up twice fold. It tore roofs off buildings and threw the British cannons around like they were made of paper mache. A laugh tore from her throat.

 _A tornado [8]_, she thought, a little light headed and hysterical. She kept laughing until they couldn’t see the fires anymore. Whether it was because they had just traveled that far, or if it was because the flames had been doused by the storm, she didn’t know.

“This is my fault,” America said, darkly, once DC’s laughter died down. “But we’ll get it back.”

“No,” DC said, smiling widely. “We never lost it.”

* * *

**New York, New York - December 1861**

DC looked up at the ship docked before her, schooling her features to hide the nervousness. She recognized the flag, even if she had never met the personifications that it represented. Still, it helped to remain cautious.

The first one to leave the ship was a young man, not much older appearing than her. He was tall and broad shouldered, and wore a dark blue navy uniform, decorated with red trims and gold buttons and tassels. There were also several ribbons and badges that shone in the sunlight on the man’s left breast. He also wore a navy hat, but it didn’t cover the brown hair, which was long in the front and obscured part of his face.

 _That’s not the standard military haircut_ , she realized. She knew immediately who this was.

“ _Privet!_ ” the young man greeted, cheerfully. He stopped in front of her expectantly.

DC held her hand out. “Welcome to New York, St. Petersburg,” she said.

His smile grew wider as he shook her hand. “Ah, you have heard of me! You must be _Amerika’s_ capital, Washington DC!” His accent was thick, but his English was surprisingly solid.

“Just DC, is fine,” she said.

"Then you may call me Dmitri," he proclaimed.

“My brother mentioned Russia was sending a representative, but I didn’t realize he would be sending his capital.”

“Ah…” He looked a little embarrassed here. “I may have, how you say, neglected, to mention I would be accompanying the Imperial Navy here.”

A laugh escaped DC without her permission. Dmitri's smile grew a little more confident at her reaction.

“I left my father a letter,” he added, sheepishly. “I do not think he found it until we were long gone. But I wanted to meet the Americans that Catherine talked of so fondly. So, I disguised myself and snuck onto the ship.”

DC grinned. “That’s nothing,” she snorted. “During the revolution, my brother thought I was fast asleep at camp while they all sailed across the Delaware to retake Princeton, but I was one of the ones paddling the boat!”

“Ah,” Dmitri said, now with a mischievous smile. “But did you put on a dress and corset in order to sneak onto said boat?”

DC looked at him admiringly. “I think we’re gonna be good friends,” she declared.

* * *

**Outside of Washington DC – April 1865**

The sun was setting in the distance as DC slowly climbed to the top of the hill. There was only other person there, who was soaking in the sunset and smoking a cigar.

“And so, the sun sets on a unified nation,” the young man said, not even looking at DC approach, with a defeated sigh. “Happy ending, after all, huh?”

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” DC said.

“Could say the same for you,” he returned. “Thought you were still bedridden. You look better though.”

“Thanks,” she said, halfheartedly. She had spent most of the war in her own city, sick as a dog for the better part of four years. The sickness had not quite left her lungs, yet, but she’d be damned if it kept her from doing her job. “It helps, not having to fight a war at the same time as housing so many sick and dying humans.”

“Fair ‘nuff,” he said. Finally, he turned to look at her. She returned it, and took in his appearance. He had a good few inches on her, though he was significantly younger. His hair was a dark brown color, his skin a natural, sun-kissed tan, and his eyes a dark blue.

Finally, he looked away.

“Where’s Alfred?” he asked, breezily. “He wouldn’t let you out of his sight the past few years. Never saw you two apart.”

“Not here,” she said. “Where’s Cyrus?”

He gave her a sharp look as he took a long drag of his cigar. “C’mon, DC,” he said, with a sigh. “Don’t be naïve.”

A cold feeling swept through her. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“… You know Cyrus,” he said, quietly. “Would rather die before he lay down his arms. The idiot never knew when to surrender. But I think he knew, even before they signed that damn paper, that it was over.”

DC swallowed, partially because of the news, and partially because she could maybe see herself a little in that description[9].

“Speakin’ of…” He reached into his pocket a pulled out a familiar pair of glasses. “He told me to give it back to Al.”

DC took it. “Thanks,” she said, softly, because she remembered how upset her brother had been when Cyrus had torn away his glasses and walked off into the storm.

There was a long moment of silence.

“What’ll you do now?” DC asked, as she watched him finish the cigar, drop it on the ground, and squash it with his heel. “Those’ll kill you, you know.”

He snorted. “That’s the goal, darlin’.”

DC tensed, her head whipping to look at him. “What?”

“I’m not needed anymore,” he said, with a shrug. “Ain’t a capital anymore, ‘cause the Confederacy is dead.” His deep, southern drawl was, for once, cold and hard, his words cutting through her like a knife through butter.

“You’re still alive,” she told him, harshly. “So stop acting like you’re already gone. You’re immortal, Dick.”

“It’s Richard,” he snapped, instinctively.

“It’s Rich _mond_ ,” she countered.

He smirked. “Not anymore, it ain’t.” Richmond laughed, and a shiver went down her spine. It was hollow, bitter.

It was the laugh of a dead man walking.

“Here,” he said, reaching into his belt and pulled out a pistol. He held it out to her, but she didn’t move a muscle.

“The hell do you want me to do with that thing?” she demanded.

Richmond glared at her now. “Don’t act all innocent, darlin’. I’ve seen you take down men three times your size. Don’t tell me you playin’ chicken now.”

DC snarled. “I’m not gonna shoot you, Richie.”

Richmond scoffed. “So now we’re not on the battlefield, and you won’t shoot me? You didn’t have any reservations before.”

“I wasn’t aiming for you!” she protested. He gave her another look, and she hated that he seemed to know her better than anyone.

“Yes, you were,” he said, forcing the gun into her hands. “Now hurry up, neither of us got much time left.”

“The hell are you talking about?” she demanded, naturally holding the pistol aimed at the ground.

Richmond gave another laugh, his eyes lighting up with amusement. She tensed.

“Oh, so naïve. You’re older than me, big sis, you know your people. You think everyone’s gonna just roll over? You should know better. Not everyone likes who’s in charge.”

DC’s hands tightened over the gun instinctively. “Stop trying to bait me,” she said.

“I’m ain’t tryin’,” he said, snorting. “I’m succeedin’.”

“Didn’t you already try that?” she snapped back.

He laughed again, but otherwise ignored the poorly timed pun. “C’mon, hurry up now, darlin’, and you might just make it back to your city in time.”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, hands shaking now.

“You’re a fool if ya’ think this is where it ends,” Richmond continued. “A damn fool, just like Honest Abe-“

“Richie,” she barked. “I’m not playing here, tell me-“

“I ain’t either,” he drawled, grinning widely. “And if you weren’t, you’d drop the gun, but no, you haven’t yet. Which means you’re considering it. Al might not notice it, and the war might be over, but you still feel it, don’t you? The bloodlust, the desire for more war, more battle, more, more, more.”  
“Stop it.”

“I’ll be gone soon, but you, you’ve gotta live with your choices. For a damn long time, don’t you? And probably for a long time more. You’ll get more chances to spill blood, don’t you worry, big sis.”

“Don’t call me that!” She felt blood pounding in her ears, her vision going red. Her hands trembled around the gun.

“Don’t you get it?” He grinned widely, eyes cold, insanity lighting up his whole face. He threw his arms up. “I’m already dead, darlin’. Just take the shot.”

It was a short pause, and not for the first time, and not for the last time, DC relinquished her self-control. Before she could think about it again, she pulled the trigger.

She remembered the sight of blood, painting the green grass around them like a canvas. Then, she remembered nothing but pain shooting through her skull, screaming as she fell to her knees. Then, a voice crying out her name in the background, until everything went black[10].

* * *

**Venice, Italy - June 1915**

“Play nice,” America told her, reassuringly. “That’s all you have to do. Remember, we’re just here to offer our help.”

DC wrung her hands. “I dunno, Alfred,” she said, nervously. “I’m- I’ve never...”

America’s gaze softened. “You’ll be fine, DC. You had no problem talking to London, and you and Paris are great friends!”

“Until we refused to help out with his revolution,” she muttered. “He hasn’t spoken to me in _decades_.”

America winced. “They were chopping heads off left and right!” he said, firmly. “I wasn’t about to let you run off into that land of crazy!”

She still didn't think it counted, but she decided not to argue it.[11]

“I know,” DC said, dully.

“And what about that Russian kid, St. Petersburg?” America tried.

DC shrugged. “I guess,” she said, thinking about the soft-spoken, friendly boy who had arrived to represent the imperial navy.

Still, she hadn’t spoken to him in a long time, outside of the occasional letter. She’s only heard a couple whispers about what was going on in Russia right now, but it really wasn’t any of her business. She did hope Dmitri made it out alright.

“Tokyo and you seemed to get along too!” America added.

DC had thought Tokyo was nice, but the girl was so withdrawn and quiet that she honestly couldn’t tell if the other capital hated her. Which wasn’t a great basis for a friendship.

Which left her with all of about maybe one and a half friends. Not a great track record.

“You’ll be fine,” America said, ruffling her hair a bit. “C’mon.”

They walked down the street, looking around at the old buildings and beautiful waterways, until they spotted a young woman waving at them frantically.

“Ve, you must be DC! It’s very nice to meet you!” the girl exclaimed as she rushed over, smiling widely and excitedly. She leaned forward and kissed both of DC’s cheeks before taking her hand into both of hers and vigorously shaking it. DC blinked, bewildered for a moment as she stared at the energetic girl. She had long, wavy brown hair that flowed past her shoulders and reached about down to her waist. Her eyes were a bright hazel color, full of excitement and joy. She had a couple of inches on DC, though looked not much older. DC’s eyes flickered down the other girl’s body before they snapped back up, cheeks a little flushed.

 _Oh no_ , DC thought, eyes wide. _She’s pretty._

“Err...” she floundered for a moment. “I mean, yes! I’m DC. _Buongiorno_.”

Venice looked absolutely delighted at DC’s probably terrible butchering of her beautiful language, squeezing DC’s hands excitedly and refusing to let go. To her horror, DC found herself flushing even more.

“It’s nice to finally meet you!” Venice beamed. “Say, we can go on a walk and I’ll show you some beautiful places!”

Venice continued to babble on adorably as DC looked back at America for help, who merely smirked. Then, he seemed to spot North Italy and some officials a few yards away, and walked over to them.

Traitor.

 _It’s fine,_ she decided, pointedly ignoring the flutter in her stomach. _This is just a walk, and it’s back to business. If she takes a liking to you, that’s a good thing! Diplomacy, after all, is important in this time of war. Yeah, just a walk._

“By the way, are you hungry?” Venice continued, pulling her into the streets of her city. “I know a fantastic place we can stop for lunch! Do you like pizza?”

 _Oh no_ , DC thought, panicked.

* * *

**Oakland, California - May 1937**

“And just where do you think you’re going?” a voice asked, amused.

DC turned around, eyes wide and guilty, feeling very much like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“Um,” she said, sheepishly, “Flying?”

The woman laughed a little- not mocking, but fond. “I don’t think your brother would be very happy if I stole you away for a little flight,” she said, amused. “It’s his sabbatical, isn’t it?”

DC pouted. “He- he wouldn’t mind! And neither would my boss. And it’s not just some little flight! I wanna go with you, this will be the most monumental moment of your life, Mrs. Earhart!”

Amelia shook her head. “You’re right, perhaps, but things can still go wrong, and America needs their capital,” she reminded her, gently.

DC tried not to let the disappointment show, but Amelia was no fool.

She thought for a moment, then said, “Here.” Amelia pulled her aviator hat, goggles and all, off her head to reveal messy brown curls. Then, she firmly pulled it over DC’s head.

DC looked up at her in surprise. “Huh?”

“I’ve just got a new one, for this flight, so you’re gonna keep this warm for me until I get back,” Amelia explained, tapping the top of DC’s head with a finger.

DC’s eyes widened, excitedly. “Yes! I’ll keep it in good condition, I swear!”

Amelia laughed. “I know you will, kid. Now, head back home and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow before I leave, remember? You’ll need your rest.”

DC huffed. “Speak for yourself!” she said, then snapped up straight and offered her a salute. “I’ll see you tomorrow, ma’am!”

Amelia offered her a salute in return. “You as well, DC.”

* * *

**Naples, Italy - 1943**

“You must be Rome,” DC said, climbing out of the fighter and looking up at the teenager in front of her. “ _Piacere di conoscerti [12]_.”

His eyes widened in surprise, briefly. “ _Si_ , how did you know?”

DC offered him a grin. “Your sister mentioned you a lot last time I saw her. She described you- uh, very accurately.”

It also helped that the Italian capital looked a good deal like Romano, who DC had met when America had taken her on a diplomatic meeting a few years ago. He had the same dark brown hair, hazel brown eyes, and tanned olive skin tone, but was a bit shorter than his country counterpart. The resemblance was also similar to Venice, in a way. They shared the same smile, the way their eyes lit up, and the way they tilted their head back in laughter. DC shook her head a bit, pushing back feelings almost three decades old.

Rome grinned, fondly. “Nothing terrible, I hope,” he said, with a wink.

“No,” she said, trying to ignore the flush spreading over her cheeks. Then, remembering her manners, stuck her hand out. “I’m DC, the District of Columbia.”

Rome took it, his grin a little bit more grim now. “ _Roma_ , but you may call me Lorenzo. Forgive me, but, do you have a human name?”

DC blinked. “Well, no...” she shrugged. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it before. Never really talked to many other countries or capitals, you see. Plus, DC’s a good enough name, humans don’t question it.”

“ _Si_ , I know. I wish your visit wasn’t in such dire circumstances,” Rome admitted, leading the way from the plane to a warehouse at the end of the runway. “But I am glad to see you here.”

“How could I not be? Your sister was always- uh, nice to me- I’m here to help in any way I can,” DC affirmed. She stumbled over her words, as she remembered the last time she had seen Venice. She cheeks grew warm at the memory; yes, _nice_ was, perhaps, an understatement. But she figured now was not the time to mention it to Venice’s brother[13].

Rome nodded, and they stepped into a darkened room. It was abandoned at the moment, but DC could see signs of humans- books open, chairs left untucked from desks, half empty mugs of coffee.

“ _Mia sorella [14]_...” Rome murmured, a bit to himself. Then, louder, “So soft-hearted, that one. She‘d follow Veneziano to the ends of the Earth, I think.”

DC’s gaze softened. “She followed him, didn’t she? Right into-“

“Right into those damn Germans’ hands,” Rome growled, fists clenched. “Romano as well- though, not willingly. He’s still... he’s still in my city. I think Isabella is still in her city too- she would never leave her people, even after going AWOL. She would never abandon them like I did. And Veneziano is foolishly following that German bastard around, like a lost puppy.”

DC watched him quietly, face pained. She couldn’t imagine being separated from America forcibly, and for who knows how long? She thought back to 1812, and wondered if, had the British succeeded in capturing her city and America had not forced her to evacuate the city, would she have stayed as well? She knew the answer before the question even finished forming in her mind.

“We’ll get Venice back,” she swore, touching his shoulder, gently.

Rome nodded, a glint of determination in his eyes. “ _Si_. We will,” he agreed, touching her hand on his shoulder. They stared at each other for a moment.

Then, “ _Seguimi [15]_,” he said, breaking the silence. He pulled her hand off his shoulder, but didn’t let go. “I’d like you to meet the rest of the partisans, here in _Napoli_. I am glad you’re here, _bella_.”

DC nodded, and tried to ignore the redness threatening to take over her face.

 _Damn, first Venice, now Rome, what is it with me and these damn Italians?_ she thought, following the Italian capital through a set of doors.

* * *

**Washington D.C. - 1947**

It had been a long, long war.

Her heart had grown heavy, her dreams were filled with blood and screaming, and her regrets haunted her with every step she took.

Yet, somehow, the nightmare was over.

Moscow and Russia were visiting, something that both excited DC but also set her on edge. Her old friend had not been quite the same in a couple decades now.

When he arrived, it was clear that today was a good day. It was almost like back in the 60s, when they had first met, and they had been hiding around Dmitri’s ship to scare the captain at every corner.

“I changed my name,” she said, abruptly, kicking her legs a bit from her seat of the tire swing. Moscow had given her a gentle push, but leaned against the tree once she got her own momentum going.

“Oh?” he asked, curiously.

DC made an affirmative noise, swinging her legs a bit more until the swing could go no higher she stared dreamily at the sky, missing, not for the first time, the feeling of flying. She just didn’t miss the war that surrounded her while she was flying. She finally slowed her kicks until she was swinging at a reasonable height, and looked at Moscow, who was watching her curiously. She let herself fall off the swing, feeling the air rush past her as she landed several feet from the swing’s origin. Then, she turned around with a big grin, and stuck her hand out to Moscow.

“Hi,” she said, trying to smother the excited grin creeping up her face. “My name is Amelia Dorothy Jones[16]!”

Moscow looked at her contemplatively. “I like it,” he said, finally. “Very fitting. Though, ‘Amelia’ I understand-“ He tugged playfully at the ear flaps of her aviator hat. “-but what about Dorothy?”

DC smiled. “Haven’t you ever seen _The Wizard of Oz_ , Dmitri?”

Moscow shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “I have not.”

DC gasped. “Oh, we have to now! Come on, I’m sure there’s a theatre nearby playin’ it! Let’s go inside so I can grab some money and we’ll go.”

Moscow laughed a little at her enthusiasm. She babbled happily about the movie all the way, holding his hand in the process.

DC’s words died in her lips as they neared the house. There was shouting from the inside. A confused look passed over DC's face. Moscow's hand tightened around hers. America and Russia stormed out of the house's back door, shouting at each other in such a rapid fire and mixed up manner of Russia and English, that neither DC nor Moscow could really catch a word they were saying.

America spotted her. His face grew furious as he saw whose hand she was holding. "DC! Get away from him!" he shouted, grabbing her and snatching her away from the confused Russian boy.

"What? What's going on?" DC demanded, trying to pull out of his tight grip.

America sent one last cold look at the Russian nation. "We're leaving going inside, and they’re leaving. Come on, DC." he grabbed her arm and dragged her off.

"да, Moscow, we will be leaving." Russia said pleasantly, taking his hand and dragging him in the opposite direction.

They turned to look at each other, matching faces of confusion and helplessness. Moscow reached out for her, but his fingers barely brushed hers before DC was yanked away by her brother.

No matter how hard she dug her heels into the ground, America kept taking her farther and farther away. DC was stronger than the average human- hell, stronger than the average capital- but America didn’t budge.

“Alfred!” she shouted. “What the hell is going on?”

His face darkened. DC paused- she hadn’t seen such an expression on his face since 1942. “We need to talk.”

* * *

**Berlin, Germany - 1989**

DC was not a stranger to being threatened. Still, staring down the barrel of a gun was a little different, especially when the person holding it had once been her best friend.

Not that DC really had any room to speak, since her gun was also leveled at the Russian capital.

"Put down your gun," DC said, her voice cold. "You've already lost."

A sneer, a crazed look in his eyes. “The Soviet Union does not lose."

"You know that’s not true,” she said, calmly. “Let’s end this. Now. The wall is coming down- whether we like it or not. Nothing we do can stop it. It’s out of our hands now.”

A beat of silence, then-

_“My name is Amelia Dorothy Jones!” She beamed._

_“I like it,” Moscow said. “Very fitting.”_

-she felt the muzzle leave her forehead. The gun clattered to the ground. DC slowly clicked the safety back on, and withdrew her gun. Her brilliant blue eyes watched him turn his back and walk away.

“Mos- _Dmitri_ ,” she called, before she could stop herself.

Moscow stopped in his tracks, but didn’t look behind him.

“...maybe one day, I’ll show you that movie,” DC said. “ _The Wizard of Oz_. You haven’t seen it yet, right?”

Another long moment of silence.

“One day,” Moscow said, his voice so soft that DC could hardly hear it. “ _Do svidaniya, Ameliya_.”

Then, he disappeared into the distance.

_Goodbye, Amelia._

DC turned around before just collapsing into her spot. She wrapped her arms around her knees and furiously wiped away the oncoming tears.

"C'mon then, Amelia. Belt up.”

A hand appeared in front of her. She looked up to see London holding her arm out to her.

Paris stood behind her, before kneeling down. He used his thumb to brush the tear off her cheek. "No man is worth your tears." he told her simply.

Ottawa smiled at her, nodding sympathetically and reassuringly.

"Let's go home," he said, and DC took London’s hand and pulled herself up.

* * *

**Berlin, Germany – November 1991**

“There it is,” DC murmured, watching the debris fall.

“Da,” Moscow agreed.

The two lapsed into a long silence; not necessarily uncomfortable, but neither knew how to continue the conversation, how to apologize, how to even begin mending decades of hurt and anger.

DC exhaled. She could see her own breath in the cold, fall air. “Did you ever think we’d end up here?” she asked.

Moscow didn’t hesitate. “No,” he admitted. “I did not.”

“During the war, or before?”

“Both.”

She made a noise of acknowledgement and continued to watch the wall fall.

“Do you think Berlin will regain his memories?” Moscow asked, curious.

She shrugged. “Not sure, honestly. It’s so hard to tell with nations and capitals, and it’s not like there’s a precedent for this.”

“True,” he acknowledged.

“I hope he does,” she admitted. “Maybe then Venice will stop giving me the silent treatment.”

 _And also to punch him in the face_ , she added, privately.

“She is still not speaking to you?” Moscow asked, curiously.

“No,” DC sighed. “I’d almost prefer that she scream or yell or hit me. She just gives me this sad, kicked puppy look every time I see her.”

“You deserve it,” he said, not unkindly.

She shrugged. “Yeah,” she admitted.

“What about Kaliningrad?”

A sigh. “It’s Konigsberg. And what about him?”

“Not according to my map! And, he won’t be a capital anymore if Berlin takes back his title. He may not be at my house anymore, but he still won’t have his own capital.”

“He should be fine,” she said. “So long as the idiot doesn’t get himself stabbed, or something.”

“Might be a problem for him,” he said, dryly.

She couldn’t help but smile. “A real struggle, truly,” she drawled.

A pause.

“What now?” he asked, softly.

DC didn’t respond immediately. Then, she turned away from the crumbling remains of the Berlin Wall. “Do you wanna see a movie?” she asked.

“… which one?” he asked.

She smiled a little. “How about _The Wizard of Oz_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1]Once, Philadelphia had heard rumors that the British personification was in a pub in her city. She managed to sneak in and catch a glimpse of him, loudly wailing about how his "blasted colony had left him" even though he had "done everything for him" while demanding another drink. Before she could get a closer look, Alfred snatched her by her jacket collar and dragged her home.
> 
> [2]French for "Nice to meet you"
> 
> [3]French for "You too"
> 
> [4]French for "my bad"
> 
> [5]French for "the capital Paris"
> 
> [6]French for "my little rabbit"
> 
> [7]German for "my little brother"
> 
> [8]Yes, this literally happened. The British burned down the capital, but before they could finish the job, a hurricane came in from nowhere and extinguished all the flames and a tornado chased them out of town. I'm genuinely surprised there is no canon Hetalia content about this event, because this is truly one of the weirdest moments in American history. Especially given how uncommon tornados are in the DC area.
> 
> [9]DC, too, could remember several moments in battle where they had been forced into retreat, or even when they won, and she could still feel her nerves alight, her heart pounding, a voice screaming in her head, demanding more blood, even when she knew it was over.
> 
> [10]She wouldn't wake up for several days, long after Booth had been caught and after Johnson had been sworn in.
> 
> [11]DC hadn’t seen Paris since she and Mr. Madison had taken a little hop across the sea and visited Napoleon at France’s house. Paris had looked at her coldly and spoke less than five words to her.
> 
> [12]Italian for "Nice to meet you"
> 
> [13]Rome most likely would not care to hear how they first met, when Venice took her around the city and to dinner, then back to Venice's home for wine. Then she had insisted that DC stay the night, because "it was far too late", and Venice couldn't "in good conscience let her wander around the city at night alone." It was a couple decades before DC realized that Venice had a significantly lower violent crime rate than pretty much any major city in America. 
> 
> [14]Italian for "my sister"
> 
> [15]Italian for "follow me"
> 
> [16]"Amelia", after Amelia Earhart, who had gone missing in 1937 on a flight in the Pacific Ocean. DC had never quite gotten over the disappearance of her role model. "Dorothy" after Judy Garland's character from The Wizard of Oz. Judy Garland was a personal hero of DC's, who admired her for her perseverance and strength despite her tragic life. Also named after the slang term "Friend of Dorothy" which is a reference to Judy Garland's support of the LGBTQ+ community.  
> Tldr: DC named herself after a pilot and a gay icon.


End file.
